Is she a lady? She’s called as much, and I wouldn’t want to besmirch her good name by suggesting otherwise or by calling ‘her’ a ‘him’ or ‘she’ a ‘he’. But, IS she a lady?Female, perhaps, but would an actual LADY, all grace and goodness, be bad?

Let’s face it, luck can be so bad you’d think it had the devil in her. You’d think a little case of demonic possession was going on and Luck was sneering at you with red eyes glowing and sharp teeth gleaming.

So, a Lady or just female. Not that I’m saying women are demonically possessed, of course. We’re talking ‘luck’ here, not the ‘fairer’ sex. I’m just saying, Luck is generally referred to as a her. Same as a ship.

“God bless her and all who sail in her!” the Royal Highness or Mayor of Wotsit would proclaim whilst wasting a perfectly palatable bottle of bubbly by smashing it against the side.

Naturally, no-one sails in Luck – you’d sink. And there’s no way to steer. But, by the same token, a ship can’t help you win the lottery. I suppose they chat about that over a glass of wine on a Friday evening. Oh, no, they can’t. Some dignitary smashed it against the brow of the boat! Oh well. There’s some cans of Apple Tango in the conservatory.

Anywho. Luck. Bless her, and all who get swept along when she’s in a good mood, or smashed over the head with a bottle of Bad when she’s not.

We’ve been on more than nodding terms, her and I. In the past, of course. Almost on speaking terms, no less. I’ve won numerous competitions – money, holidays in fabulous hotels, computers and so on. I met a wonderful girl. Luck and I were getting on great.

Then I had to jinx it.

What is a jinx? Is it a creature that hides in the shadows, waiting to trip up Luck when she’s skipping along? Is it the last train from Happiness Station, with no stops till midnight? Either way, see a penny, pick it up…

You know how it goes. ‘And all day long you’ll have good luck.’ Well, clearly Luck didn’t want to be tied to me in that way, especially when that penny was a TWO pence. Especially when that TWO pence was jealous of my fraternisations with Luck and decided to let the Jinx juggle with my juices. Especially, in fact, when the two pence let the Jinx smash me over the head with Luck.

Well, a lady is bound to take offence at that, isn’t she?

Take a look at me now. Someone should write a song.

In an asylum. Escaping the screams. And the pain. If only the pain was my own, though, the fact that it isn’t sort of makes it more so mine.

Luck. Lady or not, she’s turned her back on me.

Maybe she won’t on you. Maybe you have my luck. Be careful with it. Treat it ‘like a lady’. Try it out! Here’s a perfect opportunity!

I’m told, by Jeremy – the only orderly to at least treat us like people – that there’s a competition. A giveaway. You can win an Amazon Kindle Fire, amongst other fabulous things. I’ve put a link on the right hand side of this blog and there’s a page for it on that Shaun Allan’s page. He’s a writer or something. He’s called his website www.shaunallan.co.uk which, I think, is genius. no, really. Wouldn’t have thought of that myself…

Anywho-be-do. Try your luck, before someone else does. You’ve got to be in it to win it. Being stuck in an asylum, I’m unable to enter.

Can you hear the sarcasm in my words? Does it drip like the acid blood of Sigourney Weaver’s Alien, sizzling as it eats through everything it touches? Does it slice like a knife, causing the indescribable pain of a paper cut – that most heinous of wounds?

Or did you think I was being serious? When have you known that, hmmm? No, that’s not true. I can be serious, when necessary, but even then it’s with my tongue firmly in my cheek.

Everyone needs their defence mechanism, don’t they? Some huddle on down inside themselves, peeking over the mental sofa they hide behind to check if the coast is clear. Others sort of project themselves about a foot in front, like the Wizard of Oz bearing down on poor Dorothy, feeling small but trying to appear larger than life, the universe and pretty much everything.

One might be agitated, snapping and sniping like a cranky crocodile whilst another could be a Humble Herman, sitting quietly, hoping he won’t be seen, or heard, or even slightly noticed.

Bernard was like that. The latter. The shrinking violet. The breath on me I may turn to dust.

Oh, and it was BernARD, not Bernerd or Bernud. BernARD.

Not that he’d get up in your face angry, or even raise his voice. He wouldn’t even flicker a freckle – but you’d know. You’d feel his disappointment, his sadness. Sadness, not just at the fact you’d pronounced his name wrong, but also at the fact that he was how he was. Wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a ghost. Wouldn’t even argue with his own reflection.

It wasn’t that he was afraid. He didn’t cower, exactly. He just didn’t… It was as if he stood behind himself, but in doing so he took the interactive parts of his identity with him. The Bernard that you saw was a cardboard cut-out and served as a barrier to the world. Bernard ‘proper’ didn’t hide, he just wasn’t totally visible. You, maybe, caught sight of his shadow if the sun was just so.

I liked Bernard. He was unassuming. He didn’t bother anyone, even if they wanted to bother him. Sometimes I imagined him as an empty crisp packet, one he himself would like to screw up and toss in the bin.

He left yesterday. I don’t know that he was cured, but then I wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong – if anything. Perhaps he was here for a break. Some respite. I hope he found it. Whatever the reason, he was here yesterday and today he wasn’t.

Today, it appears, is the first day of spring. I hope Bernard can step out into the sun.

I like the gadgets. And the fake faces. How they have those latex (or whatever they are) masks that they just peel off. You could be whoever you wanted to be.

Tonight, Matthew, I’m not going to be a caged lunatic, I’m going to be Brad Pitt. Well, I don’t have the figure for Angelina Jolie…

It’s much more extravagant than Clark Kent’s specs. He just needed to half his number of eyes and he was a new man. I suppose people were more looking at the fact that he wore his pants outside his tights to notice he was exactly the same person. Plus he hasn’t made quite so many films as Tom Cruise.

Of course, you are still yourself, whatever mask you might wear. You’re still a superhero in a suit and glasses, or a secret agent in a latex mask. A mass murderer as a teacher or child molester as the quiet man who helps the kiddies cross the road.

A madman in sheep’s clothing.

Although I keep telling you I’m not, actually, crazy.

In Total Recall, there’s a girl casually tapping a stylus to her fingertips to change the colour of her nails. In Surrogates, you can sit at home and live your life as someone (or something, considering it’s a robot) completely different. And in Aeon Flux, a girl had her feet replaced by hands…. Now that’s, clearly, more permanent, and it means you’d have a hell of a time getting shoes to fit. Would they all be a size ten…?

You’d be all fingers and thumbs tying the laces.

Then there’s Face/Off. Swapping faces with a criminal only to have him do the same to you. How weird would it be to look in the mirror and see… not you. It’d fair tenderise your brain, and no mistake.

Anywho-be-do.

Given the chance, would you be someone else, if only for a short time?

What if you had to? What if you didn’t have a choice. Your identity, everything that identified you as YOU, stolen? You had to fight back. You had to get the artist to spray on a new facade? Would that be ok?

You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. I said that the other day. But people do. It’s not what’s inside, it’s what APPEARS to be inside.

I, myself, don’t believe that, but some people can’t help themselves.

Well. My face was stolen. Not by orderlies or psychiatrists. Not by some sinister surgery. Not by the ghosts on the machine of my mind.

About Me

I’ve been writing since I was knee-high to a giraffe. I don’t think I could quite hold a pen when I was nose to knee with a grasshopper, but I was pretty young when I started. It’s been my life-long dream to complete a novel. I had so many ideas and stories that needed to be told, I didn’t really have a choice, and 2011 is the year my first full length novel was finished.
Over the years, I’ve written many stories and poems, and won competitions with a few. I’ve been published in a multitude of magazines and have appeared on Sky TV debating the pros and cons of web based publishing as opposed to the more traditional kind, thanks to an online magazine I used to run – me, who produced an ezine from my home up against one of the main agents for a major literary house. Scary stuff! The magazine drew in submissions from all over the world and gave a showcase to those that either didn’t want to find magazines and other publishers or actually couldn’t. If I liked it, I published it, it was that simple.